Review: Sisterlovers ride Harley Davidson motorbikes with bass bins strapped to the fenders. These boys are rocking acid screamers living in their own technicolour cloud. The cloud is filled with Jimi Hendrix fuzz pedals, Captain Scarlet costume changes, kaleidoscopes, dayglo Matchbox cars and pink bubbles. "Ode to Unbelievable Freedom" is a stolen Buzzcocks tune reinforced with green and red concrete which gives you trails when you move your head. "Dont Go And Leave Me" is a lolloping, ecstasy-fuelled drawl tinged with streetness and painted yellow. I love this band and I've never even met them.
Review: Tic Toc Coventry. While the umpteenth summer of love continues apace, Coventrys Tic Toc club throws open its doors for the second series of concerts featuring local bands. The month of Saturdays is also being recorded by BBC CWR for transmission. First up (by choice) are those tequila drinkers and hellraisers from Rugby, Sisterlovers, whose opening salvo "Feel It" is an arsequake made in freaky dancing heaven. Hailed in some quarters as the saviours of the three-minute pop song, Sisterlovers appear to be the product of a deep and meaningful relationship between Only One Peter Perrett and Nancy Sinatra. "Don't Go And Leave Me" is bursting at the seams with teen angst lyrics and mind bending guitar invention. While "Ode To Unbelievable Freedom" possesses one of the finest hooks in the pop vocabulary. The Stones are shown a thing or two with a towering rendition of "2000 Light Years" which implodes amid a squall of feedback. And then they're gone. For an encore (the only one of the night), Steve Parfitt and his merry band of outlaws launched into "Think Again" with wild abandon. Punk meets Walt Disney in a technicolour explosion of sound. After that the only way of coming down was to cool off in the park. Fortunately I was found in the morning.
Review: Jericho Tavern Oxford. Sisterlovers would not lower themselves to do battle with the PA, instead using it as a positive enhancement of their unique style, which is something comparable to the bastard child of early Stones, Velvets, The Sweet and Jason Donovan, conceived after some sordid love-in one rainy Sunday afternoon in Popsville. They ended their set with a maelstrom of strobe, smoke machine and a specially extended version of lurching offstage. There was no encore, despite howls of appreciation from the audience, because, quite simply, there was no following that. And anyway, the PA would probably have shrieked itself into oblivion in the process.
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